


and when your eyes catch mine

by pasdecoeur



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: 5+1 Things, Idiots in Love, M/M, Mutual Pining, PLEASE read notes for trigger warnings, Rated For Violence, Sharing a Bed, tropey fucktime land
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-03-18
Updated: 2020-04-10
Packaged: 2021-03-01 02:08:09
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 5,360
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23187526
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pasdecoeur/pseuds/pasdecoeur
Summary: “So,” Jaskier squeaks the next morning, “is that a sword, or are you just happy to—”“It’s a sword,” Geralt growls.Jaskier stays under the covers, knees tucked practically under his chin, from where he can see both of Geralt’s swords in their scabbards, at the other end of the room, lying on the rug by the fireplace.Interesting, he thinks, trying not to hyperventilate.(or, five times geralt and jaskier end up sleeping together - in the least fun possible sense of the word, and then one time it was — different.)
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 134
Kudos: 1082





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> not beta-read. whhops

One. 

The first time, they’re snowed in. In a cave. In a forest. In the middle of winter, just outside some godforsaken shithole village in Redania, too far up north to be inhabited by anyone sane, hunting what Geralt _refuses_ to admit is an army of possessed snowmen, because possessed snowmen “don’t exist, Jaskier,” and “you need to stop believing small children with overactive imaginations, Jaskier,” and, “kindly shut the _fuck_ up so the _possessed snowmen_ don’t _hear_ us _, Jaskier_.”

Jaskier was counting the last one as a personal victory, which was good, because it was going to be the last victory of his tragically short life. 

“This is awful,” Jaskier muttered, trying to warm his hands by the pitifully small fire. It was probably a good thing he’d left his lute at the roadhouse - or Geralt would almost certainly have turned it into kindling. 

On the other hand, the lute would have made _excellent_ kindling, Jaskier thought woefully, and he might have actually been _warm,_ as another hard shiver wracked his body. He hugged himself, miserable, scared, and so cold he could no longer feel his face. 

“Th— This i—i—is r— really aw—awf— _awful._ ”

“Come here.”

Jaskier turned around. Surely, he had heard it wrong. _Surely_. “What?”

“Come here,” Geralt repeated. He sounded tired. 

Jaskier blinked slowly, twice, before he began to crawl across the damp, leaf-strewn floor of the cave, to where Geralt was sitting, head tipped back against a cool stone wall, eyes closed. Uncertainly, he knelt down next to Geralt. “Um.”

Geralt’s hand snapped out, wrapped around his wrist, and then Jaskier was being yanked fowards his feet— he went sprawling, his chin knocking into Geralt’s chest with a muted _oof._ Geralt’s hands were everywhere then, firm and authoritative, tucking Jaskier’s knees on either side of his hips, arms wrapping around Geralt’s chest, his face somehow tucking perfectly into the curve of his neck, and then— then—

“Ohhhhhhhhhhhh,” Jaskier mumbled, shuddering with pleasure, as the heat from Geralt’s body started to leach into his. His face prickled with new awareness. His lips rubbed hungrily against the hot skin of Geralt’s neck. He could — wow — actually feel his _fingertips_. “Oh, that’s gooooooooooood.”

“Quiet,” Geralt reminded him, and Jaskier snuggled even deeper against his chest, like a cat bathing in sunlight, and quickly but firmly pushed down the sudden urge to lick Geralt’s throat. What the hell. What in the sweet fuck—

“‘Quiet’,” Jaskier echoed, stupidly. “Sure. I can do quiet. Silence of the tomb, that’s my middle name. Stealthy as a temple mouse, you know me, I’m—” and Geralt growled at him, because Geralt always growled at him, except now, Jaskier could _feel it,_ tense and low and dangerous, vibrating against his ribs, and his throat abruptly went dry. 

Quiet. Okay. He could do quiet.

* * *

  
  
  
  


When he blinks out of the haze of his sleep, Geralt is gone but he is still suspiciously warm. Distantly, he hears the sound of a fight, inhuman screeches and the clang of sword against… metal? Stone?

Jaskier shifts on the cold stone floor and realizes something has been draped on top of him, and it is dark and warm and dry, and it takes him a while to recognize it for Geralt’s cloak, because Geralt has presumably gone off to fight the snowmen. With a last ditch burst of effort, he tries to get worried, but by then he is already falling asleep, dragged under by the claws of desperate exhaustion. 

The last thing he feels is a faint, golden ache in his chest, and then, for a long time, he thinks of nothing at all. 


	2. Chapter 2

Two. 

The next time is the night after Duny and Pavetta’s wedding. The palace chamberlain offers them a room — singular — in the upper east wing, and apologizes the whole while, but there’s a wedding party of noblemen to accommodate, all of whom are fussy and particular and thoroughly unbearable after the events of the night. 

Jaskier feels it again, the ugly, biting pinch of guilt, and he rushes to wave off the chamberlain’s apologies, murmurs knowingly about the nobility being bloody uppity knobs, and tells him even a single room in a palace is far more luxury than they’re accustomed to — which, at least in Geralt’s case — is probably true. 

What he doesn’t consider is how all of that might look to Geralt — who only heard Jaskier eagerly accept the opportunity to share a room with him, who is staring at him when Jakaier turns around, head cocked curiously to the side, and those lambent yellow eyes watching him, so ridiculously like an overgrown cat’s, and Jaskier has to bite back a shaky laugh. 

“Right,” he manages. “So.”

“That was kind of you,” Geralt says, and Jaskier blinks at him. 

“With the chamberlain,” Geralt clarifies. “You were… kind.”

Jaskier rolls his eyes, the back of his neck on fire. “Your insults mean nothing to me, Witcher,” he announces, striding into his— _their_ room, the enormous bed against the southeast wall, moonlight streaming silverbright through an open window.

“You were very sweet, just then,” Geralt continues pointedly, and Jaskier can hear the laughter in his voice, and sometimes unlocks his chest, lifts and soars.

But he gripes, "Will you— be _quiet,"_ because he knows this dance well.

There's a smile curling up the corners of Geralt's mouth. “That was a nice thing you did," he needles some more, eyes glittering, and, “Just for that,” Jaskier snarls, “you’re sleeping on the floor.”

“No, I’m not,” Geralt retorts lightly. 

(He does not.)

* * *

  
  
  


They lie in bed, quiet, awake together. The mattress is lovely, but Geralt is roughly the size of a house, so there now is a slight but definite incline in the mattress towards his body. 

“I believe I’m sliding towards you,” Jaskier comments. 

Geralt snorts. “Against your own will, I’m sure.”

Jaskier flushes, and forces his voice to dry steadiness. “All things I do with you, I do against my own will.”

“Other than follow me around, and write songs about me, and bother my horse, and—”

“Oh, shut up,” Jaskier mutters, when he finally bumps into Geralt’s side. “Roach loves me.”

“Roach loves the apples you bribe her with.”

Jaskier sniffs delicately. “Her love is for sale, and I want it more than you.”


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> what is this foul pestilent creature? *turns it over in my hands* is this.... could it be..... *shuddering, enraged* is this _plot???_

Three.

Jaskier made his way through the city’s darkened roads on quiet feet. Distantly, he could hear the clatter of hooves on the cobblestones, the sounds of the soldiers shouting — a smallish party, he figured, for a relatively unimportant prisoner. 

What he wanted was a horse, and a few hundred miles between him and this godawful town, but then that would be another thing to hang around his head, property theft. So what he _really_ wanted was a sword to guard his back — which was, now, finally, an attainable goal. 

He had figured out the patrol times within the first twenty-four hours of being tossed in the dungeons, but he had only made his escape when he heard of a witcher arriving in town on a horse called Roach. Had felt the first stirrings of hope, bribed a guard with the last of his coin, stashed carefully in the heel of his left boot, slipped out past the castle walls and into the night. 

It was an easy enough job, finding Geralt: There were four inns in this place; the sprawling city-state of Mekaar was large enough to warrant the business. The largest of them, and by far the most luxurious, was close to the royal complex, but Geralt wouldn’t stay there. Nor at the inn by the seashore, filled with families and squalling children. The hostelry near the forest’s edge at the western border of Mekaar seemed a possibility, until Jaskier factored in the proximity to the church. Religion tended to put Geralt off his food. 

Which left, of course the roadhouse, dank and mouldering, by the northern city-gate, perfectly suited to Geralt’s (awful, terrible, no-good) taste. Equally easy was figuring out the room he would choose — something overlooking the stables, with a window, good for a quick exit. 

He snuck in through the courtyard, as the sound of hoofbeats grew louder, up the stairs and down a lonely corridor. Pushed open the last door cautiously, caught sight of a pair of scabbards by a dead fireplace, felt a little frisson of relief — but no witcher. He stepped in, hood of a ratty, stolen cloak pulled low over his face, feet light on the floorboards. Opened his mouth.

“Ger—GL _AAAAR-mmmph!”_ he shouted, muffled, when an arm shot out from the darkness, yanked him forward and then sideways, his head slamming back into a stone wall, cat-yellow eyes blinking at him from the black. “It’s _me,_ you IDIOT,” he whisper-yelled, and the hoofbeats outside had grown to thunder, and there was quite a lot of shouting going on — he hadn’t much time left.

Geralt paused. “ _Jaskier?_ ”

“Oh good, he remembers my face,” Jaskier muttered. His heart was pounding. Apparently Geralt’s idea of threatening people involved firmly pinning them to walls with his thighs. Ridiculous man. He was going to get himself molested by a matianak one day, and _then_ where would they be? 

“Mind letting me down?” he asked dryly, omitting the _before I get a hard-on_ bit.

Geralt moved back half an inch, head cocked curiously to the side. His voice was lower than usual, a little sleep-rough. He was standing just far enough for Jaskier to realize he wasn’t, in fact, wearing a shirt.

This was wonderful. This was great. All of Jaskier’s blood was definitely still going north.

“Look, there’s a— Can you hear them?”

“Soldiers from the castle,” Geralt confirmed.

“Right, well, they want to off with my head, et cetera, and I'd really rather they didn’t—”

“Why?”

Jaskier frowned. “Can’t we save the Q&A for _after_ I’m not in mortal peril?” Geralt remained unhelpfully quiet, and Jaskier sighed. “Right, what am I saying. You have no concept of self-preservation, do you, Mr. Witchers-Never-Retire,-They-Just-Get-Slow-and- _Die?_ If you must know, I helped Lord Eloran’s daughter run away with her girlfriend. So.” He shrugged.

“Well. That’d do it.”

He grinned, sharp and bright. “Yup. So. Are you gonna… you know…” Jaskier gestured vaguely at the swords propped by the wall.

“FIght off an entire platoon of soldiers?”

“What,” Jaskier asked innocently, “Like it’s hard?”

Geralt rolled his eyes, stepping back properly. Thank goodness. Any longer, and Jaskier would have had to start imagining dead kittens to keep the situation in his pants under control. 

And then he said, “Get in bed.”

Jaskier— meeped. Blinked a few times. “I _beg_ your pardon.”

“Take off your clothes, your boots, get in bed.” Jaskier subtly pinched himself. Nope. Not a dream. Geralt cocked his head to the side, listening, and then added, “Quickly.”

Jaskier’s eyes widened. In the near pitch-black, he tugged off his boots, ripped open half his doublet, before pulling it over his head. Undid the ties on his breeches, and then slithered under the body-warmed covers, trying not to breathe when Geralt got in bed behind him. His throat worked dryly when Geralt’s arm came over his waist. “Make noise,” came the low whisper from behind him, and all the blood in his body rushed south, and his throat went parched, arid like a desert.

“What?” he croaked.

“Come on,” Geralt murmured, “you never stay quiet, no matter what I do,” his hand rubbing idly at the soft, pale skin just above the edge of his smallclothes, “the one time I ask you to—” and Jaskier shut his eyes and _groaned_ , the sound ripping out of his throat, uncontrollable.

For a beat, silence, and then—

The hand on his hip tightened. “Good. Louder.”

“ _Fuck,”_ he hissed, “god, _please—”_

Geralt shifted behind him, a sharp quick movement that made the bed smack into the wall. And then again, _thump-thump-thump._ Jaskier understood rapidly: the soldiers would hear the sounds before they came in, and would see what they expected to see: a dark room, two bodies wrapped in each other, fucking hungrily, like they’d been at it for _hours—_

What sounded like a fist bangs heavily on their door, and then there was a man throwing the door open, with a cry of, “City Watch!”

Geralt throws up the sheets over Jaskier in a creditable impression of a solicitous lover, covering his face but not, Jaskier notes, the long naked line of his back, cold air rushing against his skin where Geralt shifts away. 

“What,” he growls at the intruder, and Jaskier almost feels bad for the man, because he knows what Geralt looks like right now — shirtless and flushed, face trapped in a ferocious scowl, pale hair and inhuman eyes and those dangerous, god _damned_ shoulders. 

“Ah. Um.”

“ _What._ ”

“Just… um. Just wondering if you’ve seen a— an escaped prisoner— any time tonight—”

“Do I _look_ like I’ve seen anyone else tonight,” he demands, and it is truly to the soldier’s credit he isn't pissing himself. Geralt’s bark is worse than his bite, at least when it comes to people, but the _soldier_ doesn’t know that.

“Right. No. Right. My— uh, apologies,” he stammers, backing away no doubt, because the door promptly creaks shut behind him.

The warmth returns his back. A hand, light on his hip.

“Again,” Geralt murmurs, so close Jaskier can feel his warm breath skate across his jaw, and it’s frightening how easy it is, to shut his eyes, and give in to the shaky feeling in his chest, groan long and harsh, and he’s not imagining it, he’s _not,_ the way Geralt’s hand tightens on his waist, a flash second before it's gone, like he can’t hold himself back.

“Good,” Geralt whispers, and Jaskier can barely hear him over the pounding of his heart. “That’s good.”

* * *

  
  
  


They wait in tense, deliberate silence. The footsteps recede, the random shouts of City Watch! dissipating as the remaining rooms are checked. He shifts, after a while, uncertain. Lies on his back, eyes wide open and slowly adjusting to the dark. Stares at the ceiling. _This is becoming a bad habit,_ he thinks, a little hysterically. “I should… thanks, for everything, I mean it. But I should g—“

A hand settles on his belly, heavy and firm, and Jaskier notes CALMLY, that it spans nearly the width of his whole torso. 

“Stay,” comes the murmured command. 

“Are you— are you sure.”

“They’ll still be looking. The roads won’t be safe.” Jaskier turns to his side. Geralt is watching him. His eyes seem to glow, luminous in the dark, and he feels some hot-cold skitter down his spine, the thrill of danger. “Stay,” Geralt says again. 

He stays.

* * *

  
  


“So,” Jaskier squeaks the next morning, “is that a sword, or are you just happy to—”

“It’s a sword,” Geralt growls. 

Jaskier stays under the covers, knees tucked practically under his chin, from where he can see both of Geralt’s swords in their scabbards, at the other end of the room, lying on the rug by the fireplace. 

_Interesting_ , he thinks, trying not to hyperventilate.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> woooooo we reached the 'time to change the rating' chapter!  
> (unfortunately, the change is NOT due to happy tropey fuck time. there are potentially triggery issues here, so if you want, check end notes for v. spoilery warnings.)

four.

As it turned out, getting out of the city wasn’t so hard as it was figuring out why Geralt was in Mekaar in the first place. 

“Tell me tell me tell me tell m—” Jaskier chanted, until Geralt snapped, “I was on my way to Brika.”

“Oh?”

“There are…. people dying. In Brika.”

Jaskier frowned. “There’s…. _always_ people dying in Brika. There’s always people dying _everywhere._ Usually on account of, uh, mortality, and how no one’s found the elixir of life, and—”

“Dying in their _sleep_ ,” Geralt cut in. 

Jaskier frowned some more. “Yes, that’s really— Look, I know you’d prefer to go in a blaze of guts and glory, but most people actually _prefer_ dying in their sleep—”

“The last two victims were _nine_ , and _eleven._ ”

“Oh.”

“No marks on their body. Their hearts simply… gave out.”

“ _Ohhhh._ Well, you could’ve _said,”_ Jaskier said in his snottiest voice, and nudged his mare ahead into a steady trot. He could _feel_ Geralt burning holes into the back of his neck — it was delightful.

* * *

  
  
  


“So,” Jaskier said, breaking the silence after Geralt started in on his fourth beer for the evening, “what’s the plan here?”

“I need to know how many deaths there have been.”

“Uh-huh.” Jaskier waited. “That’s not a plan, buddy. That’s what we call wishful thinking, so unless you’ve got another genie tucked up in there….? No? Well then, that’s a bust, isn’t it.”

“I do have a plan,” Geralt replied. He was meeting Jaskier’s eyes now. And there was a little curl to the side of his mouth, and it was making Jaskier feel… feverishly hot. “You.”

“Ha-ha,” Jaskier deadpanned. “Not a chance. I’m not your indentured bloody slave, and I’m _not_ here to do your legwork—”

“Wow,” Geralt interrupted, brimming over with mock sincerity, “you know, there’s this guy they’re looking for in Mekaar, bounty on his head, blue eyes, dark hair, pain in my fucking ass, and _my oh my_ , you certainly look a lot like—”

“ _Alright_ , alright!” Jaskier yelled, hopping out of his seat. “Fuck’s sake, there’s no need to get _nasty_ about it.”

Geralt just smirked. Awful, horrible man. Jaskier hated him.

* * *

He was woken up, later that night, out of a deep, disquieting sleep, by a knock on the room door. It had been a long evening at the pub, wheedling stories out of the locals, none of whom particularly wanted to talk about dead children, and had indeed come to pub to forget about said dead children. What Jaskier discovered was unsettling and fragmented — the first probable victim had been Old Nan, a laundress at the castle. They heard her scream before rushing into her tiny attic room, found her dead, her body unmarked, her mouth caught open, her face captured in an expression of terror.

But then again, who ever heard of someone being _scared_ to death?

The door creaked open, letting in a broad golden stripe of candlelight into the room. Cold air rushed into the room, and Jaskier felt his skin goosepimple. Damn, he thought woozily. Maybe wearing clothes to bed would’ve been a good idea.

“Geralt?” he mumbled, recognizing the shape of the figure silhouetted gaainst the light, his eyes sleep-fogged and heavy. He pushed himself up, dragging a hand through his hair. “What are you doing here?”

Geralt walked in quietly. Set his candle on a rickety sidetable, and then sat himself down on the edge of the mattress. “I wanted to see you.”

Jaskier could feel his heart pick up. Knew that Geralt could hear it beat quicker, and set an ugly embarrassed flush up to his cheeks. “You did?” he asked, voice soft and high, pathetically weak, and he hated himself for it, for all of it, for being so hopelessly obvious.

“We never spoke about it. About what happened that night…”

“We don’t have to,” Jaskier said quickly. “Really, look, there’s no need to—” but then Geralt reached out, looping a hand around his wrist, featherlight.

Jaskier swallowed.

“I want to,” Geralt whispered, his other hand on Jaskier’s naked chest, palm flattening over his too-quick heart, and Jaskier was being gently nudged back onto the still-warm sheets, Geralt shifting closer to him, their eyes locked, intractable. 

“I want to,” he said again, palm cool on his skin. “You were beautiful that night,” Geralt continued, “so hot for me, so… _needy_.” 

His voice had turned sibilant, a low hiss. 

“My perfect, little _slut.”_

The palm on his sternum was iron now, and Geralt was smiling down at him, cold eyes and hunger. 

“You would do anything for me, wouldn’t you?” but it wasn’t a question at all, and when Jaskier tried to speak, Geralt simply laughed, his whole body pinning Jaskier to the sheets. What a fool Jaskier had been, to not find this threatening. To not find this _terrifying._

“I can feel it, you know,” Geralt murmured, “I can feel it all the time, I can taste it in the air, how badly you want me, like you’re panting for it,” a thigh nudged between his knees, firm, unyielding muscle against his soft cock, and Jaskier swallowed back a wave of fear, “like a bitch in heat, like _my_ bitch,” and there was pressure against his cock, hot and rubbing, and he could feel himself growing harder, but he didn’t _want to,_ he didn’t want _this,_ any of this—

“ _No_ ,” Jaskier whispered. Begged. “No, _don’t—”_

“No?” Geralt asked. He smiled curiously at Jaskier; it did not reach his eyes. “Why do you think I let you follow me around? Why do you think…” The hand on his chest grew heavier — Geralt’s hand like an anvil, crushing his ribs: he couldn’t breathe— 

he couldn’t _breathe—_

Geralt’s mouth nudged his cheek, his jaw, his ear. “This is all you’re good for, you little whore.” Icy cold air gusted against his skin. “This is all I need from you, you worthless cunt. I’m going to take you, and _break_ you; I’m going to— 

_CRACK!_ a sound like thunder, and lightning— 

brightness— 

an incandescence blazed to life in the room, like the surface of the sun had visited the earth, and Jaskier was shoved back, thrown into a wall, the screech of something monstrous filling the air—

He sucked in great, shuddering breaths, like fire all the way down to his lungs. When the spots cleared from his vision—

“Jaskier?” Geralt asked, sword high and bloody, those inhuman eyes so full of _concern—_

“NO!” Jaskier cried out, horrified, stumbling backwards. “You— you stay _AWAY_ from—”

For a second, something flashed across Geralt’s face, something painfully hurt, afraid — but in the next second, it was gone, and just as easy to pretend it had never appeared. 

“Jaskier,” Geralt said, and his voice didn’t break, but it— wavered. “Jaskier, look,” he said, so heartbreakingly soft, and so Jaskier looked, and saw the— the _thing_ lying dead at the edge of the bed, in a pool of black ichor, leathery skin and bat like features, matted, patchy fur, oozing pus and milky scabs. 

“What— What _is_ that—”

“I went to the apothecary,” Geralt said, in that same, too-gentle tone, like he was speaking to a feral animal, rabid and easily spooked. “After the first six deaths, they began cutting open the bodies, asking questions. All of them had bad dreams for a few nights before they died, and all of them died from massive heart failures, even the little ones. It was a _mahr_ , Jaskier. An incubus. A nightmare demon.”

“A nightmare demon,” Jaskier repeated numbly.

“Yes.” He was still crouched on the ground, maybe a couple feet from where Jaskier had settled into a corner, walls at his back. “Whatever you saw, whatever you thought was happening, it was just a bad dream.”

“So you didn’t—” Jaskier began, breaking off, horrified at himself, when his eyes started to burn with tears. “You weren’t—”

Incomprehension, and then understanding, flickered on that astonishingly lovely face, and then the doors slammed back down behind Geralt’s eyes. When he spoke, his voice was cold and harsh and flat. “Me,” he said, a brittleness there that felt like rage. “You saw me. I was your… nightmare.”

“ _No_ ,” Jaskier rushed to say. “Well, yes, but—”

“I’m sorry,” Geralt said immediately. He rose to his feet in a fluid, singular motion, hefting the _mahr_ ’s corpse up as he did. “Forgive me for… I’ll let you be, then.”

Jaskier forced himself up. His knees clicked together, and the taste of adrenaline was thick in his mouth, coppery and bitter. Geralt turned now, moving quickly, back to the door, pushing the door open. He paused, one hand on the jamb. “You don’t need to worry about… I’ll leave tonight. You should… try to sleep, if you can. It’s safe now. It won’t… I won’t.” A beat, like he was struggling for words. 

“You’re safe,” he said finally.

  
_Wait,_ Jaskier wanted to say to him. _Stop. Don’t leave me._ But the words tangled up in his throat, with all the fear and the hatred and the blinding, incinerating pain — and Jaskier, who had made a living, a _lifetime_ , of finding the right words for every situation, found that he could say nothing at all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> possible trigger issues: a monster, wearing geralt's appearance, assaults jaskier and makes violent sexual threats to him.


	5. Chapter 5

five, part i of ii.

It was an important skill as a diplomat, Jaskier had been taught, to know when to admit defeat. Sure, this was a totally foreign concept to some people, who believed in charging headfirst into every bloody situation, like Ger— to some people, but Jaskier had been told it was important to know when your hand had been played out, and it was time to fold. 

And this bard situation, he really felt, was…. was not working out. Seriously, all he’d gotten out of it was a broken heart, a ruined friendship, and enough trauma to last him seven lifetimes. 

It was time to pack it in, he figured, which was why, the next morning, he went downstairs, got some ink and paper, and hired a messenger to deliver a letter to father, that said, amongst other things, _and i think you’re right: perhaps it is time to secure the line of succession._

Which was, of course, simply an elaborate euphemism to say: _perhaps it’s time I married._

By the time he reached home, the whole castle had been roused into a rather gratifying uproar, with great lines of vendors and suppliers choking the approach road — apparently, the way his parents had decided to obtain a daughter-in-law was to throw a massive party, likely so all the guests would get so completely smashed, the local nobility would forget Julian Alfred Pankratz, Vicomte de Lettenhove and heir apparent to the earldom of Calpurton, had spent the last decade or so tromping all over the continent, _singing_ for _money._

It was, as plans went, Jaskier had to admit, rather a good one.

He didn’t bother pushing his way through the crowds to the front of the line — he didn’t _look_ particularly nobleborn right now, covered in riding dust, and he had no intention of making a fuss. Instead, he waited, between a wine merchant and a farmer's cart full of leeks and onions, chatting idly with the both of them. Apparently, taxes had gotten a bit steep since the last harvest, and there was a governor in the west district making trouble for the local peasants, things Jaskier quietly made note of, to inform Father. 

When the wine merchant was finally waved in by the gatekeeper, Jaskier tugged the reins of his bay, and kept quiet. Still old Bernie at the gates, he noted, grinning faintly, although it seemed Bernie hadn't quite recognized him.

“What?!” the old man snapped at him. “State yer business, laddie, or do ye need a bloody engraved invitation?”

Jaskier pushed the hood of his summer cloak down, and watched Bernie frown at him some more, and then go a little pale. “Forgotten me so soon, Bernard? I’m wounded.”

Bernie had turned a fascinating shade of pink, and appeared to be choking on the word ‘milord.’ Ah, it was good to be home.

* * *

  
  


As the last notes of the quadrille faded out, Jaskier and Lady Serafina took a half-step back from each other and bowed — well, Jaskier bowed, _she_ curtseyed — before Jaskier extended an arm that she happily took, so he could walk her back to her waiting parents. 

“You’re a marvellous dancer, Lord Lettenhove, I’d quite forgotten.”

Jaskier paused for a second, assessing — but Lady Serafina’s face was clear and guileless, her pink mouth curled into a warm, inviting smile, and he figured she probably _wasn’t_ trying to make some pointed comment about how long he’d been away.

“Hardly,” Jaskier murmured. “A graceful partner makes even the most left-footed of us look good.” He paused, and then grinned. "Thanks for making me look good."

Lady S smiled again, and this time it even reached her eyes. When he handed her back to her flushed, giddy mother — no doubt already imagining her daughter a future countess — the itch at the back of his neck had grown to epic proportions.

He ducked an approaching friend of his father’s, stepping past a pair of open doors and into a dimly lit balcony, no doubt arranged by his dear mother to give amorous couples a little space. It wasn’t considered a truly successful party unless the old biddies had a scandal to whisper about the next morning, and Mother had the tactical senses of a conquering general.

Which worked out well for him. Jaskier figured. He hadn’t been kidding around when he had written Father that first day, of course. It was time. It was _time._ He had to settle down and produce an heir. It was what was required of him.

It was, as his sister had taken great pains to remind him just this morning, pretty much the _only_ thing that was required of him. 

And Serafina _had_ seemed lovely, as did the Ladies Nianvi and Cassandra, beautiful and well-spoken, with senses of humor and perfect figures and absolutely staggering dowries, every single damn thing you could want for in a wife and more — it was just that… just that…

Jaskier sighed, resting his elbows on the balustrade, and staring into the dark, lonely grounds of the castle, and the forest line beyond. Just that he was being bloody _stupid,_ over a man who didn’t— who wasn’t even—

“Oh!” breathed a soft, shocked voice from the shadows to his left, and Jaskier startled. “Lord Lettenhove?”

He saw a woman’s figure rustling, standing up. Couldn’t quite make out a face in the dark. “I beg your pardon,” he said quickly. “I didn’t mean to intrude…”

“Not at all,” she said. She moved forward — glided, really, the motion was so effortless, like her feet weren’t even touching the ground. “I was hoping I’d see you here.”

Something unease slithered up his spine. “You…. were?”

She moved out of darkness, into the golden spill of light from the ballroom, and—

Her gown was dark, ebony, it hung in tatters off her body, pale skin, the color of sun-bleached bones, her eyes, cat-like, slitted and yellow and feral, her ears… distinctly elven.

“Oh yes,” she hissed, tendrils of pale hair swirling about her unearthly face in a phantom breeze. In the blink of an eye, she was upon him, towering, her mouth a red slash, open in a wide, hungry smile, and her claw-tipped fingers were reaching his throat, the tips resting on fragile, flushed skin. Jaskier could feel them, spreading frigid points of icy fire, and he was trying desperately to not breathe too deeply.

“Young, and beautiful, and _rich…_ Yes… You will do nicely, Julian Alfred Pankratz.”

 _Nicely for WHAT?!_ he wanted to scream at the mental bitch, but that would send her nails stabbing right into his throat. So he panted shallowly as she bent closer, and oh _god, this was going to destroy his mother, this would break his family’s hearts,_ and he didn’t even— didn't even know _why—_

His heartbeat was a thunderstorm that filled his ears— He shut his eyes— 

There was a roar, a scream, the sound of a sword whistling through the air, Jaskier couldn’t tell what came what after what—

—and then the pressure on his throat had disappeared, and he was slowly blinking open his eyes, only to see—

“Geralt?” he said faintly. “What…”

Geralt sheathed the sword, and stepped forward, cupping his throat, frowning at him. “You’re alright,” he growled, like he was daring Jaskier to argue. 

Jaskier blinked at him. There's didn't seem to be a great dead thing flopping about at his feet, so maybe Geralt had.... missed? Oh hell. “Right, cheers on the save,” he mumbled. “I’m going to… faint now, if you don’t mind.”

The last thing he saw was Geralt’s face going _even_ stormier, and then, blissfully, it all faded to black, and his last thought was how overjoyed Mother was going to be with the success of the evening’s festivities.

* * *

_(to be continued, in part ii)_

**Author's Note:**

> title from 'shut up' by greyson chance  
>  _[i cannot hold my tongue; you give me much to say//i'm sweating bullets, nervous that you'll push away// **and when your eyes catch mine** , i know i talk too much//so give me your two lips, and baby i'll shut up]_
> 
> thanks for reading! remember to subscribe for updates, and hit kudos if you liked it <3  
>  ****[rebloggable on tumblr here!](https://ao3feed-geralt-jaskier.tumblr.com/post/612860470223880192/and-when-your-eyes-catch-mine)  
>  find me on tumblr @pasdecoeur


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